What do you really know?

He left like a ghost with teeth, and came back like he never left. Always knocking with knuckles that once bruised me, mouth soft, voice sweet, promises laced with the same venom I drank like wine.

And I opened the door. Again. And again.

I know what they say. Dumb girl. Desperate girl. Slow girl.

I hear them in the hush of a whisper that thinks I’m out of earshot, in the way they blink a little too long when I speak his name, in the pity that drips from their eyes like I asked for it.

They say, "If he put hands on you, why go back?" But they never ask why he had the chance to convince me love was pain done properly.

They don’t know how soft an apology can sound when it follows after silence. How cold the world feels when you’ve been told no one will ever want you more than the person who broke you best.

He always knew how to return. Not with flowers, but with ownership. Not with guilt, but with control. His fingers already knew where to press, his words already knew what to unravel.

And I? I was the girl who still looked for a pulse in his promises. Still hoping maybe this time he’d stop choking the air from my name.

But no. He just liked how it sounded when I said it with tears in my throat. And I wore him like shame, like perfume no one else could smell but everyone sensed.

They all blamed me. Not him. Never him. He was just the boy who was angry. I was the girl who asked for it by forgiving him.

And I did. Because I loved him. Because I didn’t know love should come without pain. Because no one ever told me that staying alive shouldn’t mean staying obedient. How he threatened to hurt me if I didn't take him back.

So say what you will. But don’t forget— you only know the headlines. I lived the whole damn book.